by Lynette Noni
“I want to make you a trade,” the young woman continued.
Kiva kept her face blank, though she couldn’t deny that she was curious. What did Cresta want? And what did she think it was worth to Kiva?
“You’re going to save Tilda Corentine’s life,” Cresta stated. “You’re going to make sure she stays alive long enough to be rescued. And in return, I won’t kill that boy you’re so fond of. The one with the stutter. Tipp, isn’t it?”
All the breath left Kiva. “What?” she whispered.
“You heard me,” Cresta said, her hazel eyes flashing. “Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.”
Before Kiva could begin to calm her panicking mind, the shower block’s luminium beacon fizzled and popped, enveloping her in darkness. It sparked to life again mere seconds later, but by the time it did, Cresta was gone.
* * *
“What I don’t understand is why she thinks she needs to bargain with you,” Warden Rooke said, peering at Kiva from across his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin.
After her run-in with Cresta, Kiva had headed straight to the southern wall and told the guards on duty that she needed to speak with the Warden. Despite it being the middle of the night, Rooke was still awake and working in his office, his polished perfection at odds with her rumpled, damp, and shaking self.
“You’re already under orders to get Tilda Corentine healthy enough for the Trial by Ordeal. Why would Cresta think you need more motivation?” Rooke asked. His expression turned pensive as he continued, “Unless she doesn’t know about the Trials. We haven’t announced them yet, but I’d assumed word had begun to spread, regardless.” A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Perhaps the prison rebels aren’t as informed as they would like to think.”
“Whatever her reasons, it doesn’t matter,” Kiva said, sitting on the edge of her seat, a solid weight of anxiety balling in her stomach. “She threatened Tipp’s life. You need to let him leave.”
Rooke’s dark brows arched up toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”
It took everything within Kiva to push aside her trepidation and say, “He’s only here because he was with his mother when she was caught. He was eight years old at the time, just a boy. He’s still just a boy. He doesn’t deserve this life.”
Neither did Kiva, having arrived a year younger than Tipp, but she’d long since given up trying to talk her own way free of Zalindov.
The Warden made an impatient sound. “We’ve already discussed this. Multiple times. My answer remains the same—as long as he has no guardian to claim him, he’s considered a ward of Zalindov. He can go free, but only if someone comes to collect him.”
“But he’s innocent,” Kiva said, leaning forward, barely managing to remain in her seat. “And now Cresta wants to use him against me.”
“Many in here are innocent,” Rooke said dismissively. “If you do your job, Cresta won’t have a reason to harm him. For once, she and I are in agreement on something. Fancy that.”
Kiva wondered if she’d ever hated the Warden more than in that moment.
Gnawing on her lip, she lowered her voice and admitted, “Tilda is really unwell. I don’t know what’s wrong with her—I don’t know if I can save her. And if I can’t—”
“Let me be frank,” Rooke said, sitting back and relaxing deeper into his plush chair. “I personally don’t care if the Rebel Queen lives or dies. These upcoming Trials are a hassle, and the planning of them is giving me indigestion. So many rules to follow, so much organizing to be done to prepare the four tasks, with missives arriving daily from every kingdom issuing advice and wanting to be kept informed. Thank the gods that only the Vallentis heirs are coming in person, since they’re going to cause me enough of a headache to last a lifetime.” Rooke pinched his lips together and continued, “But as frustrating as all this is, I’ve been ordered to see that Tilda Corentine’s sentence is carried out.”
The tightness of his features made it clear how he felt about these orders, especially after having been free to reign with little accountability until now.
“For that to happen, she needs to stay alive,” Rooke went on. “And for that to happen, you need to do your gods-damned job.” His face darkened as he added, “If Tilda doesn’t survive long enough to compete in the first Trial, it won’t just be Tipp’s life in danger. Do I make myself clear?”
Kiva’s heart was thumping in her chest. She swallowed and nodded, unable to form a verbal response.
Warden Rooke’s expression lightened. “You did well coming to me tonight, Kiva. I’m glad you listened the last time we spoke. Keep up the good work, and everything will be just fine.”
Again, Kiva nodded, still incapable of speech. His praise should have brought her some relief, confirmation that she’d given him enough information to remain useful for the time being. But what he didn’t know was what she’d withheld.
Cresta hadn’t just ordered Kiva to save Tilda’s life—Cresta had also said the Rebel Queen needed to remain alive until her rescue. A rescue that Kiva didn’t mention to Rooke, for fear of what it might mean for her own impending freedom—even if she had no idea when it would occur.
It was one thing to follow the Warden’s command to get Tilda to the first Trial. But beyond that . . . How was she going to keep the Rebel Queen alive? Tipp’s life depended on her figuring that out. Kiva’s life depended on her figuring that out.
Because if she failed, whether by Cresta’s hand or the Warden’s, they were all dead.
Chapter Ten
Tilda’s fever broke four days later.
Kiva was both relieved and concerned. Relieved, because it meant the woman might survive the sickness that was still flooding her immune system. Concerned, because there were now only three days left before the crown prince and princess arrived to witness the Trial by Air.
She was running out of time.
Even though Tilda no longer sweated through her sheets every hour and was waking up for longer periods, Kiva still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. The woman couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak, and not even Kiva’s gentle encouragement could get her to shed any light on her illness. At times, she appeared lucid, but then moments later she would be overcome by delirium, wrestling against her bindings, frothing at the mouth, and screaming loud enough to have guards sprinting for the infirmary.
Kiva didn’t know what to do or how to help her. And on top of that, she was exhausted not only from the increased cases of the stomach virus, but also from helping prisoners who were seeking her out for other troubles, a growing number of which stemmed from altercations with the guards.
This deep into winter, with very few new arrivals, the guards were ill-tempered and bored. They sought entertainment in the form of women prisoners, sometimes men. After ten years, Kiva was used to it, but that didn’t stop the burn of hatred she felt when fearful women came in droves asking for barrenbark to stave off their cycles. The grueling nature of the labor and limited rations meant that most of the female inmates didn’t bleed at all, but for those who did . . . The last thing anyone wanted in Zalindov was to fall pregnant. It happened, of course, and in the rare cases when a woman had gone to full term, Kiva had assisted with the delivery. But not once in her decade at the prison had a mother and newborn child survived for long.
Kiva took precautions herself, but thanks to her work hours being longer than most and her assumed loyalty to the Warden, she usually avoided the attention of the guards. She wasn’t always immune—as had been the case a few weeks earlier when Naari had intervened. But while she’d suffered through being their plaything a handful of times over the years, they’d always stopped before going too far, as if aware that they might need medical aid from her in the future. It was both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, since she was saved from complete violation, but a curse, because she could do nothing to protect others. Sometimes she slept in the infirmary, not only to avoid the restless guards, but also to
be available around the clock for those in need of her.
It was on one of these nights, in the early hours of the morning, that Kiva was awakened by a low, keening sound. She’d sent Olisha and Nergal away when they’d arrived for their shift, claiming that she wanted to monitor some of the quarantined patients. In truth, Naari had warned Kiva not to walk back to her cell block alone that night, and since the guard had been needed elsewhere, she couldn’t provide an escort.
Kiva had reeled for hours after her warning. She’d wondered if it was because Naari was a woman, or if it was simply because she was a decent human being, despite her role at Zalindov. Whatever the reason, Kiva was grateful, and after sending Tipp away earlier than usual and telling him to stay close to Jaren, she had remained inside the infirmary and curled up on a pallet when she could no longer keep her eyes open.
The low, keening sound came again, and Kiva stirred more fully, fighting the sleep that tried to pull her back under. But when she realized the noise was coming from Tilda and that it wasn’t just an incomprehensible sound but, rather, a moaned word, she sat up, shoving her legs over the side of the bed and shuffling over to the woman.
“Waaaater. Waaaaaaaater.”
Tilda was straining against her bindings, shaking her head from side to side, staring blindly into the low-lit room.
“I’m here,” Kiva told her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get you some water.”
Kiva’s heart was pounding in her ears as she rushed to collect a tumbler and dunked it into a pail of fresh water. Vaguely, she noted that a guard was stationed at the door to the infirmary, someone she didn’t recognize. The armed man was peering curiously toward Tilda, no doubt listening closely.
Discomforted by the thought that he’d been watching them both sleep, Kiva avoided eye contact with him and hurried back to her charge, gently raising the ill woman’s head and holding the tumbler to her lips.
Tilda drank eagerly enough that some of the water trickled down her chin, and once she was finished, Kiva dabbed it dry.
“Thaaaan— Thaaaaaaaannnk—”
“You’re welcome,” Kiva said, swallowing a lump in her throat.
Only one full day remained before the first Ordeal, and despite her fever having broken earlier that week, there had been little improvement in Tilda’s condition. Seeing her finally try to communicate now . . . Kiva had to swallow again, a wave of emotion rising up within her.
She wasn’t supposed to become attached to her patients. That was the first rule of being the prison healer. Any healer, for that matter. But especially one at Zalindov. And yet, this woman . . . Kiva couldn’t help feeling connected to her.
Don’t let her die.
“Do you know where you are?” Kiva asked quietly, dragging over a stool and sitting beside Tilda’s bed. She wasn’t sure if the woman understood her words, but she had to at least try. Even with the guard listening in and likely reporting everything back to the Warden. She would just have to be careful. Both of them would have to be careful.
“Zallll— Zaaaaaalllll—”
“Zalindov, that’s right,” Kiva said encouragingly. She noted that Tilda was having trouble with her speech, adding it to the list of symptoms that might help her find a cause of the illness. An idea came to her, and she said, “I’ll be right back.”
Jumping up, Kiva hurried across to her supplies and pulled out a pot of gumwort that Tipp had already ground into a paste. The sludgy brown color was unappealing, but it smelled like fresh herbs and aided with relaxation and clarity.
Hoping it would loosen Tilda’s words, Kiva returned to her side and asked her to open her mouth. The woman hesitated, and Kiva feared she would resist—possibly even try to fight her around the restraints—but after a beat, Tilda did as asked, and Kiva smeared some of the gumwort onto her tongue.
After giving the paste enough time to take effect, Kiva asked, “Can you tell me your name?”
The woman’s lips opened and closed before she finally said, “Tilda. I’m . . . Tilda.” Her throat bobbed, as if she was trying to swallow but the effort pained her. “Where . . . am . . . I?”
A breath whooshed out of Kiva, even while her heart sank. Hearing Tilda say her own name made Kiva feel like she was finally getting somewhere, at least until Tilda questioned where she was—right after having already answered that herself.
“You’re in Zalindov, remember?” Kiva asked slowly.
The woman blinked sightlessly up toward the ceiling. “Zalindov? Yes. Yes . . . where?”
Kiva’s heart continued to shrivel. “You arrived ten days ago,” she shared, unsure what else to say. Tilda gave a small, surprised jerk. “You’ve been very sick. I’m—I’m trying to make you better.”
“Why?”
One sharp word, and Kiva found she didn’t know how to answer. There were so many reasons, most of which she couldn’t say. Especially with the guard listening in.
Don’t let her die.
“Because I’m— Because you’re— Because we’re—”
“The . . . Trials,” Tilda interrupted, her voice beginning to sound weaker again. “My . . . sentence. Why—” She inhaled a rattling breath, and with visible effort, continued, “Why keep me . . . alive . . . only so . . . I can . . . die?”
The broken words had Kiva fisting her hands in her lap, her nails digging into her flesh. Of all the things for Tilda to know, to remember . . . why did she have to ask about the Trials? What was Kiva to say? Too many answers sprang to her mind.
Because it’s my job.
Because the Warden ordered me to.
Because my sister wrote me a note.
Because Cresta will kill Tipp if I don’t.
Because I won’t be able to live with myself if—
“Where . . . am . . . I?” Tilda asked again, interrupting Kiva’s thoughts.
Slumping in on herself, Kiva was just about to repeat that Tilda was in Zalindov, but then she paused, wondering if perhaps that wasn’t what Tilda was really asking. With a quick look at the guard, Kiva weighed her words and, seeing no harm in it, answered, “You’re in the infirmary. Zalindov’s infirmary.”
A moment of silence fell, until Tilda asked, her voice a mere whisper now, “Who . . . are . . . you?”
With another quick look at the guard, Kiva offered the most honest reply that she dared. “Someone who wants you to survive this—all of this.” She reached out and, impulsively, gave Tilda’s hand a squeeze before coming to her senses and releasing her quickly. “You should rest. We can talk again tomorrow.”
But when morning dawned, Tilda had slipped back into her delirium. Not even the gumwort worked this time.
The hours trickled by, and Kiva waited to see if the woman would return to herself, but her hope was in vain. Tilda was still too sick, fully at the mercy of whatever ailed her. And when the following day arrived—the day of the first Ordeal—Kiva knew she was out of time.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
Kiva didn’t sleep a wink that night, praying Tilda would make a miraculous recovery, and that she would then have some way of surviving the Trial by Air. As Kiva had told Tipp, the first task wasn’t always impossible to overcome, more often used to tease the offender into believing they stood a chance at survival, which ultimately proved in vain once they reached the second, third, or fourth Ordeals. And yet, even if the difficulty level was lowered for the first, it would still be a challenge for any able-bodied person, which Tilda currently was not.
Don’t let her die.
The first four coded words from her sister’s note kept swimming across Kiva’s thoughts, the order, the demand. And then there was Cresta’s threat, her hissing voice repeating over and over: Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.
Kiva’s mind was a battleground.
Don’t let her die . . . If she dies, he dies . . . Don’t let her die . . . If she dies, he die
s.
Kiva had no idea what to do, no idea how to save Tilda, how to save Tipp. There was only one way she could think of that might work, but . . . the risk . . . and the cost . . .
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
When Naari arrived at the infirmary just before midday, her face grim, Kiva’s stomach was in knots.
“It’s time,” Naari said.
“B-But . . . she’s still so sick,” Tipp said, his fingers closed around Tilda’s limp arm, as if to comfort the woman.
Tilda was awake, but she wasn’t coherent. She was mumbling to herself and staring out at nothing, her body twitching with a muscle spasm every few seconds.
“I have my orders,” Naari said, unapologetically. “Prince Deverick and Princess Mirryn have arrived, and they don’t intend to stay longer than they have to.”
Kiva fought against rolling her eyes. What a shame it would be for the royals to have to spend any amount of time in this hellhole. Everworld forbid they saw what really happened behind the walls: the fatal work, the vicious guards, the poor conditions. The moment they left this place, they’d be headed straight back to their winter palace, giving no further thought to the prisoners and their daily challenges.
And why should they? Kiva mused scornfully. As far as the royals were concerned, everyone in Zalindov was guilty and deserved to be there.
“Can she walk?” Naari asked.
Kiva didn’t want to answer, but the look Naari sent her was clear: today Naari was a Zalindov guard, just like all the others. There would be no yielding, no compassion.
“Yes,” Kiva said, hoarsely. “But she needs help. And she has no idea what’s happening.”
Naari’s jaw tightened, the slightest hint of how she felt about this, but she still nodded. “Get her up. The rest of the guards are assembling the prisoners in the eastern quad.” She paused. “Be prepared, they’ve called everyone in from their work assignments.”
“Guess the r-royals want an audience,” Tipp said, his young face pale.
